


Broken Hallelujah

by Paperclippe



Series: Anders/Mahariel [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: F/M, Foreshadowing, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Mage Rebellion, Mage Rights, Mages and Templars, The Chantry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:05:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 21,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4681445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paperclippe/pseuds/Paperclippe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's the Warden-Commander. She's the Arlessa of Amaranthine. She's the Hero of Ferelden. And she's never been good at keeping out of trouble, so it's no surprise Mahariel finds herself in Kirkwall in a time of upheaval, and that she can't help but get involved when old feelings stir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They Said I Shouldn't Come

**Author's Note:**

> This story came of an irritation of mine. For those of you who have played the game, you'll know that in Dragon Age: Awakenings, you can't have a relationship with any of the characters like you can in both Origins and II. I know it's because it's not technically a stand-alone game, just DLC from Origins. That said, it is a fairly in-depth piece of content and the game always felt a little half-hearted to me; the dialogue options are there, and once my mind gets going... Well, you know how these things work.

The moment she heard the voice she knew it was him.

Mahariel tread the rough hewn floor slowly; since giving up her armor, she'd gone back to her Dalish roots and she trod about barefoot. On the soft dirt floor of the inn, carved out of the very cliff-face that Kirkwall rested upon, she was almost silent.

She came to a large room, the largest of the inn's quarters save the bar. In it was a long, smooth table surrounded by chairs, three of which were occupied. The room's forth occupant was standing, facing away from her. She could see his back, his tall frame, short strawberry blond coiffure tightly tied on his head.

"They told me Kirkwall was in the middle of a revolution; they said I shouldn't come," she said factually, her soft voice floating across the room. "I should have known you would be here, Anders."

The tall man spun around, and for a moment his face showed fear and uncertainty, but when he met her ocean-blue eyes, the doubt was rung from him like water from a rag.

"It can't be," his words were dismayed but his feet were certain and he crossed the threshold between the room and the hall, and she was locked in his embrace before she could respond. Her chin barely came to his chest and she pressed her nose against fabric of his robes, soft grey-blue things covered by a thick coat, and heavy, feathery pauldrons. Her fingers reached for his back. She could smell his skin through the cloth, the scent of ozone and warmth. It occurred to her that this was the closest she'd ever physically been to him. A rush of near-forgotten emotion jostled her to put space between their bodies, but he kept his wide hands on her small arms, his sienna-brown eyes fixed on hers. A smile came to his lips, a wily smile she would have known anywhere if she knew nothing else of him. "What in Andraste's name are you doing here?"

"Taking some time away before I go mad," Mahariel breathed honestly. Being the Warden-Commander had been hard enough; for seven years now as the arlessa she'd also watched over the lands and overseen the rebuilding of not only the keep but the ravaged city of Amaranthine. For the first time in as many years she'd finally found time enough to get away, leaving the arling in the hands of her Wardens - those that chose to remain, at any rate.

"You lasted a good deal longer than I," Anders confessed.

"And I'm going back," a small spring of animosity leaked through into her speech. She wasn't sure she'd yet forgiven the mage for what he'd done, small though it seemed to the others.

Anders licked his lips. "Lyna... I'm sorry. You know that. I mi -"

A blonde dwarf who sat at the head of the long table cleared his throat, and Mahariel blinked, realizing, though she'd known it all along, that she and Anders were not alone.

"Well look at me, forgetting myself," Anders said, keeping one hand on the arm of the Warden Commander.

"As though this were unusual," a tall, intimidating woman with flaming red hair butted in. She looked almost familiar to Mahariel, but the elf could not place the befreckled woman.

"Aveline," cautioned a young man with a beard, who again struck Mahariel with unreasonable familiarity. "Let's all be nice, won't we? Anders, care to introduce your friend here?"

"She's much more than that," Anders lead off, and Mahariel squeezed shut her eyes at the thought of what the mage was about to say, but her fear was unfounded, "This is the Warden who forced the Circle of Magi to finally give me my freedom," and he stood a little taller for all his rebelliousness. "Aveline, Varric, Hawke, this is Warden-Commander Mahariel, Arlessa of Amaranthine. You might know her as the Hero of Ferelden."

A bit of color threatened to rise to Mahariel's cheeks, but she recalled that there had once been a time when she'd wielded her Warden-ship as an even more powerful weapon than her sword, a time when she had been proud and accepting of the title. But that was a time before she'd had years to reflect on the situation. Now, despite all that she'd done, despite the thanks she still received and the help she insisted on giving to her people, her new people, righteousness and titles just made her feel ridiculous and impotent. But she put her negativity aside long enough to give a small bow and mutter, "It is a pleasure." And it was, but expectations weighed heavily on her nevertheless.

"You," the red-headed woman stood and took several long strides toward Mahariel and Anders. "You lit the beacon at the Battle of Ostagar when Loghain quit the field." She stood proudly, her right arm clamped across her chest. "I am Aveline Vallen. I fought alongside King Cailan in the Ferelden army. All on the field saw what you did. We never doubted your loyalty to the king, for what it's worth."

Mahariel bowed her head to Aveline, "Thank you. It's worth a lot, even now. Know that Teyrn Loghain got what he deserved, Aveline Vallen," and if there was one thing Mahariel remained certain of, it was that. When she met the woman's spring-green eyes, Mahariel saw confidence there, strength.

It came through even though her next three words were barely a whisper. "No. Thank you."

"Hero of Ferelden, huh," said the dwarf, and Aveline turned to face him. "You're the one who backed Harrowmont?"

Mahariel nodded. "Is he doing well?"

The dwarf, whom Anders had called Varric, shrugged in his chair. "Damned if I know. I stay out of all that business. Drives a man to drink."

"As if you needed a reason," the bearded man, Hawke, joshed.

"I've got plenty of reasons, Hawke."

"Haven't we all," and the young man raised his drink to Mahariel. "It was too late for Lothering, and I don't hold that against you. You saved a lot of good people. Ferelden's still a place and not just a memory and that means more to us Fereldans than you can know," and he drank deeply.

Mahariel shook her head, "Ferelden was my home too. Maybe one day I'll return."

"We all say that, don't we," Hawke observed. He didn't mean anything by it and Mahariel knew that, but at the same time, he'd called her bluff. She'd never go back to Ferelden. Too much of Alistair still lingered there, too many towns, too many names. Of all she'd survived, it was the one thing she thought would destroy her. Far away, in Amaranthine, she'd moved on, but to return to the lands where they had met and lived out their entire story... A great pain burned in her chest and she quickly turned her eyes to the floor, swallowing the guilt she felt every time anyone said the once-king's name.

"You should have let me..." she said to herself, and Aveline, who still stood nearby, inclined her head.

Mahariel smiled and dismissed herself. "Sorry. Thinking out loud."

But Anders, who knew her better than that, moved his hand from her arm to her back in an effort to whisk her away. "Excuse us, then. I think we have a lot of catching up to do," and as he said the words, her eyes found his again and pleaded yes.


	2. Will You Help Us?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet evening lets Anders and Mahariel catch up after years apart, and he wonders if he can still trust her with what matters most to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief note on the text since you've made it to chapter two: this story is not new. I originally wrote it four years ago, a fact that may or entirely may not be worth noting as one progresses.

Kirkwall was typically a stale and humid place, but tonight, a pale wind washed in from the ocean that bordered the city-state and cooled it down, turned the muddy streets sandy, the stone ones chill. They walked from Lowtown to Hightown, where the light from the foundries died away, and made great lazy circles along the many paths and alleyways, for a very long while letting no words come between them.

Anders studied the elf he to whom he owed his freedom. He knew her better in battle regalia; here, in a simple shift and leggings, her feet as bare as the day she left the forest, she seemed unassuming, not at all a hero, an arlessa, a Warden-Commander. Her hair was loosed from the tight bun she once wore, which kept the dark locks out of her face and made slipping a heavy helm on and off all the more easier, more comfortable. They streamed down now, around her shoulders, nearly to her waist, long wavy shadows that laid on her body. She seemed like someone he could have known in another life, regardless that he knew her in this one.

"How is the Keep?" It was the only thing he could think of to ask; though their initial embrace had nearly been intimate, he didn't dare begin with personal questions. She seemed quieter than she had, as though seven years had turned down her volume.

"Good. Sigrun keeps things under control. Oghren keeps things out of control. It's a good balance, and occasionally, they're useful," she said with a playful smile, more the Mahariel he had once known, never afraid to speak her mind and somehow never making enemies either. "Nathaniel left not long after you. I didn't expect he'd stick around. After what happened to his family..." she sighed. "But Amaranthine is quiet. The city is nearly itself again. I'm settling land disputes and dowries, not commanding armies and slaying darkspawn." She looked up at him, and they paused. "It's not where I saw myself when I left my clan. Not that I even expected to live this long. But it is calm, if tedious, now. And Thedas is free of the Blight," she looked away. "For now."

When she mentioned Nathaniel he was grateful she said nothing of Justice. He could only assume she didn't know; this was probably not the best time to bring up the spirit he now harbored within.

"How are you, Anders?"

It was a loaded question, even if she asked it honestly, and he had no reason to think that she didn't. But how was he? Well, Knight-Commander Meredith was threatening the lives of mages all around him, and he had ideas about stopping her ricocheting around his head that he could not reveal to anyone, not even to Hawke, the only person he fully trusted. But he knew Mahariel, knew her better even than his Fereldan comrade, knew parts of her she'd never entrusted to anyone but Anders himself. Could he...

No. Now was not the time. Now was the time to be glad one of the few people he'd ever called a friend was still alive.

"A lot better, having seen your face, Lyna." He called her by her familiar name. Once upon a time, she'd asked him to call her by it. He hoped that hadn't changed.

She smiled, but it was sad, even as she reached out and took his hand by her fingertips. "I never thought to see you again, Anders. When you left..." she breathed in, choosing her words, "left the Wardens, I thought that you either would come back to us in time or that you would be lost to me forever. I had hoped..." she let the thought die. "But this is unexpected. Pleasantly so," and the lilt came back in to her voice, a lilt that time and seriousness had almost washed away completely. After it all, she was still Dalish.

The resumed walking, a sort of tension broken between them. "Honestly, I had thought to come back. But I ended up here, where mages needed me more than... well, more." He walked with his hands behind his back, standing as tall as he'd dared to in a long time. Years of hiding had made him slouch, to try to be small and out of sight. While he stood up for his cause, he had no desire to end up with his permanent residence in the Gallows.

Mahariel nodded sympathetically. She'd always understood, and for that, Anders was endlessly thankful. Never once had she questioned his magic - she'd questioned him, and how rightly so - but the fact that he was a mage was always moot, and helpful at its best. Maybe it was due to her Dalish heritage: she hadn't known a Circle, hadn't made pariahs of apostates as part of her upbringing. It wasn't in her. What was was a nearly endless capacity for empathy. Kirkwall needed someone like her.

And, it dawned on him, here she was.

"Will you help us, Mahariel?" He made sure he asked gently. There was one person whose position he wouldn't force, and she walked quietly alongside him.

She bit her small lip, "I have had my fill of politics, Anders."

"But people's lives -"

Mahariel touched his arm. "I know, Anders. Believe me." She didn't bring up the fact that she'd given him ample opportunity to speak out against injustice with his position in the Wardens. "I will not hurt your cause, that much is certain, and you know I'll stand up for you. But I am not here to topple empires. I have had enough of that for lifetimes."

The mage nodded. Wardens were not at all supposed to intervene in politics, or anything that was not immediately related to the Blight. But Mahariel had always done things a little differently. And now that she was an arlessa, she was intrinsically involved in the fate of a nation, while retaining the Warden Commander title. She was probably the first, a destiny which could have just as easily fallen upon the shoulders of Alistair, the man who would have been king.

Anders knew that Alistair had loved Mahariel, and she had loved him in return. He didn't doubt that she loved the dead man still. Among the many things she had confessed to him was that she had all along planned to take that fall, to slay the Archdemon and allow Alistair to take his rightful place on Ferelden's throne. But the bastard son of Maric had committed one final act of devotion to his lover, pressing her out of the way and ramming his own blade through the Archdemon, ending the Blight and his own life in a single blow. Mahariel blamed herself for that, blamed herself for turning down the witch Morrigan's deal, blamed herself for Queen Anora taking the throne after Alistair's demise. Perhaps it was the only reason she pressed on in the Wardens; she felt the need to right the wrongs she laid on her own shoulders. She hadn't confessed that part, but Anders had speculated. Why else would she linger in service after a Blight?

Even still, Mahariel had found comfort and safety in Anders' presence. Now, as they passed the Chantry once more, she dared walk a little closer to him, their elbows bumping at moments when their steps fell out of rhythm. She had thought on the words long before she asked them. "Have you... found anyone, Anders?"

He took a long, slow breath and thought back to his first days in Kirkwall. "There was a man... a mage." He looked up at the Chantry with contempt and hurried his pace as though he could walk away from the horrors he had seen within. He wished the building were wiped from the landscape. Maybe he would sleep a little easier if it were. "Karl. The Circle got to him before I could save him. He was made Tranquil..." Not wanting to get into specifics that would invariably lead to more questions, he summarized. "His last thought - thought of his own - was that he'd rather die than live as one of those... those shells." Anders closed his eyes, and remembered the look on Karl's face in his last moment, just before he slipped into Tranquil nothingness. "I granted that request." Anders swallowed hard and turned his face away quickly before turning back. "But that was years ago."

Mahariel took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Anders, I - I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have -"

"Asked?" He shook his head. "No, it's alright. I hadn't thought about him in a long time," he confessed, returning the firm grip around her fingers, running his thumb over the back of her hand tenderly, thoughtlessly.

Mahariel kept up with his long strides easily, and soon they were turning back toward Lowtown, where Mahariel was staying, lodging in a room at the Hanged Man. She could have called on the nobles of the city to put her up in some Hightown mansion, she supposed, but with the recent demise of the viscount and the trouble brewing between Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino, she thought it best not to insert herself, with her own slew of titles and experience, however innocently into the struggle happening in Hightown. Besides, she was more suited to Lowtown dives than Hightown bickering.

"Can I interest you in a drink?" Anders offered. He had next to no coin of his own but he'd put it on Varric's tab. He was certain the dwarf wouldn't mind, and didn't care much if he did.

Mahariel declined. "I've just gotten into town. Let me rest tonight. Tomorrow you can ply me with all the liquor you see fit," she promised. It was the kind of thing she would have said to him ages ago, and he was not at all sorry to bid her goodnight. She was good for her word. She was good for a lot of things.

Anders was warm head-to-toe as he took the long stairs back to Darktown.


	3. You've Been Asking Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel tries to offer help to Anders.

Try though she might, Mahariel could not help but look into Anders' activities in Kirkwall since he'd left the Wardens, and she found she still had a knack for asking questions - or more, for getting answers. Avoiding the dwarf Varric at The Hanged Man - she knew better than to ask someone that close to Anders - she prodded gently the people of Lowtown, and eventually found out that Anders was running a clinic in Darktown, healing the impoverished sick of Kirkwall, and Maker, it seemed like there was an endless supply of them. She visited a woman called Lirene, from whom Mahariel bought several things she didn't need and would never use. When Lirene pointed Mahariel toward the donation box, the Warden, with a sly smile, emptied more than fifty sovereigns into the box, but not before she covered her long ears and tried to make sure all eyes were focused elsewhere. Anders might take her charity as pity, and she didn't want to upset him, but it wasn't hard to see that he and his clinic probably didn't have two coppers to rub together.

She returned to The Hanged Man and had a meal brought to her room while she reviewed several treaties in the dim candlelight. She wanted to leave all her work behind, but there were some things that couldn't be ignored. Once she looked these over and returned them by post, they would probably send more, depending on how long Mahariel was able stay away from Amaranthine. She didn't know if she planned on spending the whole time in Kirkwall, but she did know that she was making her sabbatical last as long as she could without the arling falling into chaos. The paperwork was the price she paid for that.

The day whiled away and before she realized the time, there was a forceful pounding on the door. The sudden interruption in the quiet startled Mahariel, and she nearly lit one of the treaties on fire with a jostled candle. It escaped destruction, but was covered in milky candle wax, a thing she hoped didn't invalidate anything contained within. Sighing, the Warden Commander rose from her chair and opened the door to her quarters. Anders stood, glaring down at her, one eyebrow cocked, arms crossed firmly.

Ah, well, so much for not upsetting him.

Wordlessly, she let him enter the room, and closed the door behind him.

"I have a feeling I know -"

"If I wanted your money, Lyna, I would have written a formal request to the Wardens."

"No, you wouldn't have, Anders."

He frowned. She called his bluff, and perhaps it was an obvious one. "I'm doing fine. I'm doing more for the mages in this blasted city than anyone's done in years, and without your sympathy gold."

"You're upset when I don't help, and more upset when I do," she muttered, turning to face away from him, toward her table, but she wasn't angry with him.

"I need your support, not your charity!" His thin face was twisted.

"First of all, Anders, you do need my charity, given that you run one. Second of all, take the gold, buy yourself a hot meal and some clean clothes, and maybe you'll be able to get some support of your own," she taunted.

He narrowed his eyes at her. She'd lost none of her sharp wit nor any of her ability to somehow always know what to say.

But Mahariel put up her hands. "You don't want the money, fine. Give it back. I'll hand it out to those poor Fereldan refugees myself. I'll personally give it to the mages who've somehow managed to get free of the templars, I'll slip it inside their robes and tell them to get the hell out of Kirkwall. I'll take the money and do exactly what you would have done with it if you had had the gold."

Anders opened his mouth to snap back at her but her words penetrated him before he could respond.

"You wanted help and I gave it to you. I even tried to do it anonymously, but that's hard to do when you're Dalish and moneyed. People notice you. Don't think this is some brush-off. I'm not buying you so I don't have to give you what you really need. I was just trying... to be nice." Searching for something to do with her hands, she rolled up the treaties and slipped them back into her pack, moving the candles aside as she sat on the small, round table.

Approaching her, he took her hands in his and held them up. "Forgive me. I think I forgot the person you were. I'm no longer used to generosity."

"The Champion seems to favor you," she challenged.

"You've been asking questions."

"Of course I have. Have you forgotten that much?" She grinned.

He dropped her hands, letting out a long breath. "Hawke is an excellent man, and he has a good heart. But I question some of his choices," Anders confessed.

"There are many who would question yours, my sweet mage. Don't forget that."

The Warden Commander did always have a nasty habit of putting things into perspective.

"Another time, Lyna. Will you accept my offer?"

"Drinks?" She stood.

"Drinks," he jingled his purse, full of coin for the first time in years, full of coin he had intended to throw back at her feet. "First round's on me."

She nudged him gently with her shoulder as she walked past. "You bet your enchanted ass it is."


	4. If It Weren't For...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a bit of tipsy talking, a character from Mahariel's past is unearthed, much to Anders' dismay.

Maker, how long had it been since she’d had a stiff drink? She’d started with wine, unsure of how well she’d be able to hold her liquor.

Not very well, as it turned out.

“And so, he says to me,” Mahariel, red-faced and giggling blurted to Hawke, to Aveline, to Varric, to anyone who would listen, “he says, ‘All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools.’ That was the first time I really thought to myself, ‘That Anders isn’t such a bad guy.’” Of course, they were all just about as sauced as she was, though they’d been at it a good while longer and with much harder liquor.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Varric spat. “When did Blondie have a sense of humor?”

Anders opened his mouth to defend himself, but Mahariel beat him to it.

“What are you talking about, dwarf? Anders was the life of the party at Vigil’s Keep. Him n’ old Sir Pounce-a-Lot. What a sweet cat,” Mahariel mused. “Whatever happened to the poor thing?”

“Well, I couldn’t rightly take him to Kirkwall,” Anders mumbled under his breath.

Hawke interjected, “You told me the Wardens made you get rid of the cat!”

Mahariel gasped and stood up, putting her hands down on the table. “You’re a liar!” She pointed accusingly at Anders. “I would just like everyone here to know that I gave this man that cat!” Intoxicated as she was, the Warden Commander treated it like the most serious charge that had ever been levied against her. “I would never make you get rid of Sir Pounce-a-Lot. He was a mascot! An honorary Warden! You bastard,” she sat back down. “You’re a liar.”

Aveline almost inhaled her drink and Anders seemed to try hard to disappear, his face the same color as the guard-captain’s hair.

“You know, Mahariel, you’re not at all how I pictured you,” Varric noted. “I thought you’d be a stuck-up bitch - no offense - like the Knight-Commander.”

“Mahariel is nothing like -”

“Blondie, I get that now.”

Mahariel shook her head. “I was always a little bit irresponsible. If I hadn’t been, I probably would have never been pulled into this mess in the first place. Tamlen and I were always getting into trouble. And even then, if it weren’t for Marethari and Merrill, I’d probably be just as dead as Tamlen,” drunk as she was, Mahariel was numb to the loss of her friend. She’d thought about it too long and too hard and too many times and she didn’t have a clear enough head to go over it again. Right now, Tamlen’s loss was just a fact.

But the whole table stared.

“What?” she asked.

“If it weren’t for... who?” Anders asked slowly. Mahariel had told her so much and yet somehow this had completely escaped him.

“Marethari, my Keeper,” Mahariel said factually. “She kept me alive until Duncan recruited me into the Wardens. And -”

“That’s who she reminds me of,” Varric slapped the table, “Merrill. I was trying to think of it all last night.”

“How do you know Merrill?” the Warden Commander quizzed.

“How do you know Merrill?” Aveline asked back.

“She’s my clan-sister. Though, strictly speaking, she’s not from my clan. She joined us during the Arlathvenn. We needed a First.” Mahariel looked down into her empty glass, and finding no more refreshment there, she posed the question again. “How do you all know Merrill?”

Anders hung his head. “She lives in the Alienage. Marethari... gave her to us.” How much did Mahariel know about Merrill’s blood magic? All of it? None of it? Did she approve? How could she approve?

Mahariel sat up straight in an effort to back away from the group. “Why would the Keeper do such a thing?”

Hawke opened his mouth to answer, but Anders was sober enough to hold up a hand to stop him. “Maybe you should go see her.”

“Now?”

“It’s just down the road,” Anders insisted. “I’ll go with you.”

Aveline raised her eyebrow at Anders, painfully aware of how he felt about the blood mage. Anders made an innocent gesture and rose from the table, offering his hand to the Warden Commander. She grasped it firmly and stood up slowly to keep her wobbling to a minimum. He lead her gently down the steps, keeping his mouth firmly closed. The same questions ran through his mind over and over: did she already know? What did it mean if she didn’t? What would it mean to him if she did? A swell washed over him, a briny mix of fear and hate and long-forgotten never-indulged emotion he felt for the Dalish woman at his side.

At the bar was Fenris, who fixed his glare on Anders the moment he was aware of the mage’s presence, but even the former slave could see the seriousness of the look in Anders’ eyes, the careful way he lead the woman at his side.

The elf narrowed his gaze. The woman was of his own race, but her markings made her for Dalish, and the way Anders seemed to protect her with his body spoke either of import or... surely not.

As the mage walked past, he mouthed only one word: “Don’t.”

Fenris put up his hands and turned to face the bar, but not before giving the small elven woman a quick once-over. She seemed average enough, but something about the way she walked... She was intoxicated, to be sure, but she carried herself with confidence, with strength. Who was she?

He turned quickly to watch them before they disappeared through the front door.

“Evening, Elf,” said a smooth voice at his side.

“Dwarf,” Fenris inclined his head in greeting. He ordered a drink before pressing Varric, “Who was the woman with the mage?”

“That,” said Varric, crossing his arms, “was the Hero of Ferelden.”


	5. Aneth Ara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Old friends reunite.

Anders knocked quickly on a worn-looking door, the entrance to a shabby hovel in the city's alienage. Surely Merrill could not live here, Mahariel mused. How could anyone live here? She'd seen Denerim's alienage, and though Kirkwall's seemed a good deal cleaner, it was still an absolutely sad place to behold. The stones themselves seemed to be constructed of oppression. She could not imagine herself in such a position. Mahariel hadn't been privileged, exactly, but she couldn't imagine staying here over returning to a clan. Didn't they know the clans would have them back? Many of Mahariel's brothers and sisters had been city elves, welcomed with open arms into clan Sabrae. How could they choose this over the wood? The land?

"Merrill, open up," Anders called at the wood of the door.

"Why?" came a muffled voice, "So you can lecture me?"

"Look, there's someone here who would like to see you."

"Hawke can come on his own time."

Anders sighed and leaned his forehead against the door. "It's not Hawke. Would you please just let me in?"

There was a heavy silence, but the sound of a hand on the handle of the door made Anders stand straight again.

"What is -" Merrill clamped a hand to her chest. "No."

"Aneth ara," Mahariel said softly.

"Lethallan," Merrill breathed, taking small steps forward in the dark alienage, unsure if her eyes were deceiving her. Mahariel spread her arms wide and Merrill fell into them. "I hadn't heard from you - heard of you in so long... I thought for sure..."

"I missed you, Merrill."

Merrill raised her eyes to Anders, but kept her arms tight around Mahariel. "Ma serrannas, Anders. Thank you."


	6. I Just Wanted to Fix It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill confesses.

Anders stood to the side in Merrill's hovel and allowed the two Dalish women to speak. Mahariel was regaling Merrill with tales of Ferelden, of Alistair, who she spoke of sometimes through laughter but mostly through tears, and Merrill let her go, never interrupting, only loosening the grip on her clan-mate's hands when she reached forward to wipe the tears from Mahariel's chin with a hanky. Common tongue and Dalish bled together in a whirlwind, and though he could only follow half of the spoken language, the story between the two elves was clear: they had been close, so close that even the catching up was like the retelling of a particularly memorable day at the market: no time had passed between them even though so much space had.

When Mahariel got to telling Merrill about Anders, she spoke almost entirely in the elvhen tongue and Anders' face turned red. They were sharing secrets like jealous school girls. Occasionally Merrill would blurt out an exclamation, "No!" "Really?" but otherwise the tale flowed from start to finish and even though it was greatly summarised - her work in Amaranthine was compressed to just a few sentences - it was well past midnight when Mahariel finished and asked the question Anders had hoped she would forget:

"Why did you leave the clan, lethallan?"

Merrill's eyebrows knitted and her soft doe-eyes welled with tears. "I just wanted to fix it, Lyn'."


	7. Tell Me You Haven't Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick respite.

When Mahariel left Merrill's hovel, she was shaking. Her breath was uneven and her eyes were closed.

Anders thought she was taking it quite well. She hadn't reprimanded Merrill, or even questioned her actions, but if there was one occasion where Anders would let that slide, it was this one. He couldn't force an agenda on her now. In fact, the Warden-Commander had said nothing at all, until she wished Merrill dareth shiral.

He reached out to rest a hand on her shoulder and Mahariel's knees buckled as though the single weight of his fingers and palm would have been enough to crumble her so he pulled away, but she reached out and grabbed his wrist firm in a tight fist, the gesture exposing her physical strength, her emotional weakness. She pulled his hand back toward her and his feet followed as she pushed the back of his fingers against her cheek. She was hot, flushed.

"Anders," she begged. "Tell me you haven't changed."

He closed his eyes. He couldn't answer. His fingers were damp now; she was crying, quiet, gentle. He took his hand away only far enough to bring it around her waist, the other stroking her dark earthy hair.

"Let's go," he said, and forced her feet to move. The inn was yards away; she needed to rest, probably more now than she did on her arrival.

Anders questioned himself as he walked. Maybe this had been a bad idea, but wasn't it best to find out from Merrill herself than second-hand? He'd let the blood mage speak her piece, never interrupting, never judging - not this time, anyway, for Mahariel's sake. The Warden-Commander had to find out somehow, but he found himself feeling sick inside. Mahariel had been so happy to see her long-lost clan-mate. Now even the memories she had of Merrill would be tainted.

The Hanged Man was never really empty but the patrons had quieted down, sleepy from work, from liquor. Varric's door was closed; Anders had never really considered it, but the dwarf had to sleep some time, he supposed. He took Mahariel back to her room. Her trembling had ceased, she'd let him let her go, but the distant look in her eyes said more than all that. She sat down on her bed, put her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands.

"Why, Merrill?" she asked the floor.

Anders almost couldn't believe the words that left his mouth, "She did what she thought she had to do."

"Believe me," Mahariel said, not looking up, "I've allowed and encouraged some... unorthodox practices as a Warden. I understand that every little bit helps. But I've seen what blood magic does. I saw dozens of good mages almost lose their lives to The Rite of Annulment at the Circle in Ferelden. I saw what Uldred did to those who would not submit to him and I put him down like the animal he'd become." She breathed out, long and slow. "But his heart was evil. Merrill's heart... she'd never hurt anyone. I don't... Not the eluvian. Not that wretched thing."

Anders watched Mahariel contort her face as she struggled with the contradiction. He knelt down in front of her.

"And I know what you'll say," she continued. "'Blood magic makes everyone fear all magic even more.' And you'd be right. Look what it did to our clan. But no, it was fear that did that. Merrill, she, she never actually loosed any evil on the world, only on herself. But if she means to cleanse the eluvian, I don't know what lengths she'll go to. That thing is twisted. That thing turned me into what I am now, it took Tamlen from me. She means well. She always means well." She looked down at him and he, up at her. "Please tell me you're not a blood mage now too."

He laughed. He laughed loud and hard. He wasn't a blood mage, certainly, and he let her know that through his mirth, but deep in his belly he feared he might be something worse. Merrill had never loosed any evil on the world, but he nearly had. He'd nearly taken a young girl's life when Justice wanted to have his say.

Now, though, now wasn't the time to tell her, not when she was finally smiling again, not even when she asked, "There's no one else from my seedy past now in Kirkwall, is there?"

Lying, he shook his head.

"Oh, thank the Maker. I don't know if my heart could take it."

"Is seeing me really that awful?" he jested, mostly for himself.

Mahariel shook her head slowly, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap. He sat beside her on the bed, having risen from his kneel. "Seeing you, Anders..." she reached out, running her toughened fingers along his auburn stubble. A chill descended his spine and he took a long breath in.

They'd fallen in love in Amaranthine, but Anders was too young and stupid to admit it and Mahariel was still in shock over the loss over her lover and king. To him, it had felt like commitment. To her, it had felt like disgrace. But wordlessly, they both knew it, saw it in the other, indulged in it in small glances and comments.

But now, years and miles away, with her hand pressed to his cheek, he was no longer young, the bliss was gone from his ignorance, and she was still so beautiful. He touched her hair, lost his fingers in it, made a fist and pulled her face close to his. But he hesitated.

She could feel his breath on her lips, a feeling she'd longed for every moment that had passed when they called Vigil's Keep home, but Alistair's death was still too fresh on her heart for her to take the lead. Now she knew what it was to be alone.

"I've waited so long," she murmured, and brought her mouth to his, kissing him softly, slowly, but eager to end the separation between them. She parted her lips for him and he tasted her mouth, her breath, hot and sweet, as his hands grasped her waist and pulled her whole body close, close enough to feel her heartbeat against his. Now that he had her he was hungry for her, starving for her touch, a touch he'd never allowed himself to know. But how had he lived so long without it?

Mahariel threaded her hands underneath the mage's thick overcoat, pulling it off of his shoulders and letting it fall onto the bed, slide onto the floor, Anders' sinewy arms exposed. His hands found safe haven on her neck, between her shoulder blades, holding her body firm against his, letting her slender legs slip over his.

He parted his lips from hers long enough to sigh, "Maker," and then brought them to the tender flesh of her neck, pushing her blanket of hair aside, tasting the skin below her sharp ears, above her battle-hardened shoulders. She breathed roughly, whispering the name he had taken, the name that had become his own. Her exhalations were hot on his skin, and holding her still, he laid her down on the rough straw mattress, moving her hair away from her face with the tips of his fingers, finding her lips again with his own. She held on to his hips, never letting him more than inches away from her.

Anders' eyes slipped closed.


	8. I Want to Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel caves and says yes to Anders.

When Mahariel awoke, Anders lay still beside her, his chest rising slowly and falling with the rhythm of his breath. The fine lines that age and worry had begot were smoothed from his face, and he looked more like the boisterous man she met at Vigil's gate nearly a decade ago. His hair was askew, barely clinging still to the bit of rough twine that held it out of his face. He hadn't even taken off his boots.

She sat up, smoothing her shift and stretching, running her fingers through her knotted hair, but not before gently sliding a great length carefully out from underneath the sleeping mage. He didn't stir.

Mahariel rose, bare feet quiet on the floor as she picked up his coat and dusted it off, folding it in half. She meant to lay it over a chair, but she brought the garment to her face instead, breathing in deeply the scent of Anders' skin. He seemed so much older now, and he was quiet. How much of his life had she missed? Too much? Did it matter? He felt the same way she did, even after years. She held the coat to her chest.

"You don't have to miss me yet," his soft voice carried across the room, a silky tenor.

Clutching the coat like a child caught trying on their parent's clothing, she smiled shyly and turned to him. He lay propped up on one elbow, clever brown eyes watching her as she laid the coat down on the table, candles now burned down, the only light from small windows carved just below the room's ceiling.

"Who said I ever have to miss you again?" she offered, walking back to the bed. He sat up and reached out for her hips. She bent over and allowed him to kiss her before she sat down beside him.

"Don't be simple, Mahariel, you won't stay in Kirkwall for the rest of your life." He was blunt, but it was true.

She countered, "And you will?"

"The mages here need me."

"Will they always?"

He frowned, reaching out for her hand. She let him have it and he held it in his lap. "Lyna. You know as well as I do that -"

"That this problem won't be resolved in our lifetimes, Anders. I am not unsympathetic to the plight, you know that. But perhaps," she paused, letting herself get lost for a moment in the contrast of his features, his sharp nose, soft lips, "I am willing to make time for you."

He cupped her cheek and sighed. "I cannot say no to you."

"You did once before."

He shook his head. "I said no to the Wardens. Don't misunderstand my actions."

Mahariel turned her face away, letting his hand fall from her face. She hadn't misunderstood. She'd come to terms with it, to be certain, but Anders' sudden departure had worn at her for a long time. The Warden-Commander had hoped every night for a long time that the mage would be found pacing outside the Keep, ready with a, "I just wanted to see how long it would take you to let me in," but he never did come back.

"Listen. Let's not do this now," he asked gently, and she turned back to him. If he couldn't say no to her, she was even more hopelessly pliant to his wishes, and the lines that he'd developed around his eyes, around his mouth, made his once boyish face serious, his words more weighty. She listened to them and she agreed. They would have plenty of time to talk. She didn't have to force it now.

"I'd like to see your clinic," she requested. "I want to help."


	9. The Bad Part of Town

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel sees Darktown, which forces her to make a choice.

"The bad part of town" didn't even touch the squalor and desperation that bled from the walls in Darktown. Reflexively, Mahariel brought the collar of her shift up over her nose as Anders led her around the winding passages and down the dark steps of the Undercity. 

"You don't... live here..."

He turned around and looked at her with something just shy of contempt. "Here, I'm just another apostate. I live wherever I can. And these people need me."

She regretted her words, pained by the determination and fatigue in his eyes. "I didn't mean -"

"I know," he said, but this time he kept walking, and didn't turn back to meet her gaze. She watched him as he walked, watched the hunch in his shoulders, the scuffing of his boots on the dirt. Just how unkind had time been to him?

The ascended a small flight of stairs and before he took her into the dark recesses of the clinic, she stopped him, hand on his arm.

"Are you ...alright?" Her full mouth was pressed thin with concern, murky blue elven eyes wide. He twined his fingers in hers. Anders shook his head, but said nothing, and she couldn't tell if it was an answer to her question or if he was dismissing her again, but he kept his hand linked in hers as he took her through a half-rotted wooden door and into a large man-made cavern of a room, full of the sick, the helpless.

Anders walked over to a slender man with dark brown hair, holding Mahariel at length, though holding her still. He leaned in and whispered something against the man's ear, and the man indicated a small group of children, huddled in the corner. Anders nodded, and turned back to the Warden-Commander.

"One of those children just lost their mother; the rest have been orphans for some time. This is the only place they have left, and from what it sounds like, the littlest one," he indicated a small, blonde boy who was propped up against the wall and trembling, "has stopped eating. They don't know if he's sick or if he's just given up."

Mahariel stared at the huddled group of orphans, stared at the sad, sunken faces all around the room. Her heart froze in her chest. She opened her mouth but it would form no words. He took her gently by the shoulder.

"I'm sorry if I've been short with you. But I hope now you see why."

"Just tell me what I can do."

Releasing her, he smiled to cover up his pain. "Nothing." 

He went to the small group of children, most of them boys, and knelt down. They backed away from him at first, but he reached in his pocket and pulled out a few of the gold coins Mahariel had slipped into the donation box. Thus bribed, they drew closer. Anders spoke softly and Mahariel couldn't make out the words, but the little blonde boy stepped from the back of the group to where Anders stood and allowed the mage to ruffle his flaxen hair. It was a gesture of comfort, but Mahariel knew too that Anders was checking the boy over. She waited for any subtle clue the mage might give, but he was restrained. He stood tall, stretched with his hands on the small of his back, and instructed the group of homeless children to remain where they were. He went to the back of the clinic and retrieved a loaf of considerably stale but not yet moldering bread and brought it to the children, watching them carefully with his hands on his hips to make sure they split it up fairly. Dusting the crumbs from his hands, he went back to Mahariel.

"It's prison fever; not serious yet. Probably just given the boy an upset stomach. Easy enough to fix, but they never stay well. They get it from the nits that fester in this place. I keep the clinic as clean as I possibly can but the minute they go back to their filthy blankets..." he shook his head. "Half of them die of diseases people in Hightown would never notice if they caught." He sighed. "If he eats, he'll be alright. But once the actual fever sets in, there's nothing I can do. Even the ones I get to in time, they're never the same."

He sat down hard on an empty cot and Mahariel thought for sure it would collapse under his weight, but it remained firm and she joined him.

"Sometimes I think it might be better if I just left them to..." he looked down quickly, and then back up, watching the children savor the bread as though it were the finest cut of meat. "It's a cycle. They get sick, they come here, I make them well, they leave, they get sick. And it only ever ends in death. No one leaves this place, no one stays healthy." Anders cracked the backs of his knuckles with his thumbs, then allowed himself to slip his arm around her middle. She leaned against him, hoping the gesture would soothe the mage, but she had nothing else to offer him, no words, no actions that would make any kind of difference.

Anders sensed her unease and offered, "The money will help. Thank you. They'll have bread and clean water and maybe even new clothes. But unless something in this city changes - so much here needs to change."

As she had so many times before, Mahariel bent to him. "I'll see what I can do. I can't make any promises."

"That you came down here into this hole means more than anything those noble bastards have ever done. I don't even think they know we exist, except when they send the templars to come and imprison us."

Mahariel squeezed her eyes shut tight, the weight of the situation bearing down on her. During the Blight, she would never have let this stand. She would have handled the situation, and taken a legion of darkspawn down to round out the day. But she had had letters of conscription, had the aid of arlings and all the races of beings that called the land home. This was a new place, and though she had more power now than she ever had before, she couldn't begin to know what to do. Who would she go to? The city had no viscount, and there was no room for the impoverished. Kirkwall was overfull with refugees and threatened to succumb to civil war at any moment. The only thing she would be certain of was what side she would be on if the tense peace finally collapsed. And she didn't get the feeling the Knight-Commander was someone she should go rail to, lest Mahariel herself burst the fragile bubble of quietude herself. Perhaps the Grand Cleric could do something. It was as good a place to start as any, she reasoned, and if she would not or could not do something, Mahariel would reassess the situation then.

"What are you plotting?" asked Anders softly. He knew the look the Warden-Commander got when she was preparing to make a move. He'd seen it time and time again. He'd seen it when she'd told the templars that the mage was hers now.

"Anything I can."


	10. What Was Necessary

The evening was wearing on as Mahariel walked to the Chantry alone. She'd put on a finer raiment, of blue silk and silver thread, and tied her hair back in a loose knot, a compromise between the tight bun she'd worn as a warrior and the long, loose style she wore when she was trying to be no one. She went to the Chantry as the Arlessa of Amaranthine, as the Warden Commander. She stood straight as she ascended the stairs and carried herself with easy confidence when one of the sisters asked how she could assist the Dalish woman.

"Please tell the Grand Cleric that Warden Commander Mahariel would seek an audience with her."

The sister nodded with wide eyes and quickly hurried away.

Mahariel never referred to herself as the Hero of Ferelden; she didn't consider herself the hero of anything. That had been Alistair. He was the one who'd made the ultimate sacrifice. After that, Mahariel was small and meaningless. She'd controlled the Blight, but she had not ended it. All she had was what she did now. But the sisters were apprised of news from foreign lands. She knew just who it was who sought council with the Grand Cleric.

Mahariel waited patiently, admiring the fine construction of Kirkwall's Chantry. In Ferelden, they were so many simple, wooden buildings; barns practically. They had been adorned with absolute love and care, with fine embellishments and careful decoration, but the buildings themselves were humble. Even Amaranthine's Chantry could not hold a candle to the grandeur of Kirkwall's.

Frankly, Mahariel didn't understand it. Her Dalish roots superseded her continental understanding: to her, the gods and goddesses spoke through the beauty of nature, the miracle of life itself. They did not require grand constructs and special, assigned places to worship. The act of living and doing and learning was worship enough. But she could admire the work, the effort that had gone into the building. One could not craft a building so fine without a fine purpose in mind.

And compared to the squalor of Darktown just next door, it nearly made her sick. How many tithes did the Chantry receive? How many of them went to the poor? The fact that the house of worship was in Hightown said enough.

"The sister tells me the Hero of Ferelden would like to see me," said a gentle, wise voice from the staircase. Mahariel cast her gaze up and saw an older woman, completely grey with tired skin, but whose eyes were still bright and alive. For a moment, she thought of Wynne, and Mahariel smiled.

"Please, Grand Cleric. Call me Mahariel," the women met at the bottom of the steps and each gave the other a small but reverent bow.

"Elthina, then. Please, what brings you to Kirkwall?"

"Initially, a rest..."

"But?"

Mahariel smiled. Grand Cleric Elthina was a wry old bat. "But I've never been one to leave well enough alone."

"Then you come to Kirkwall at a poor time; there isn't enough 'well enough' to go around."

"Precisely."

Elthina sighed. "You've been speaking with the Champion."

Mahariel shook her head.

"You'd get along well, I think." The Grand Cleric folded her hands. "You are new here, so forgive me if I seem terse: believe me when I say I am doing all I can for this city. The mages are in no danger from the templars if I have my say. But I will continue to allow them to do their job."

"And the poverty in Darktown? Is there no aid that might be given?"

"I am to understand this would have been a request you would have made to the viscount?"

"Believe me, Grand Cleric. I am here because I have no one else to turn to; at least, no one else who I would consider as unbiased as you."

Elthina nodded, and lowered her voice. "Kirkwall could use someone like you; the Champion seems taxed even now. But I'm afraid I have no aid to give you except my support. I will continue to encourage both the Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter to remain civil, and as always, any citizen of Kirkwall is welcome to seek help within the Chantry." She looked around at the hollow building. "So few of them do anymore, though."

"I will remind them," Mahariel offered. It was all she could do. She had no doubt the Grand Cleric was enforcing the stability she promised, but Mahariel was not one to not choose sides. How long would the Blight have gone on if the Wardens had been unbiased? How many nations would have turned them away?

"Tell me child," the Grand Cleric's tone changed subtly to one of inquisitiveness, "if you would indulge an old woman's curiosity."

"Anything, Grand Cleric."

"Is it true what they say about you and the Urn of Sacred Ashes?"

Mahariel nodded. "Though what has become of it, I cannot say."

"That is probably for the best." Elthina turned toward the statue of Andraste, pensive.

"If you'll indulge my curiosity, Elthina?"

"Of course, child."

"Personally, what is your stance on the mage's plight?"

Elthina held her head high. "Andraste said that magic should serve man, not rule over him."

"She did not say that mages should serve man," Mahariel countered. "Is it not the case that magic only rules over mages because it is what they are forced to be defined by? They are either a member of the Circle or an apostate, and that is all they are allowed to be."

"A fair point, young hero. But until a better solution is found -"

"There will never be peace." Mahariel shook her head. "It doesn't sit well with me. Mages are people, whether or not a better solution is found."

"And it would seem Kirkwall agrees with you," the Grand Cleric submitted. "Perhaps your presence will aid us, Mahariel."

"I have no delusions of grandeur," the Warden-Commander insisted. "I have only ever done what was necessary."

"And that is exactly why I have faith in you."


	11. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief respite.

Evening had fully taken hold of the city when Marahiel returned to the streets. The fires from Lowtown's forges burned dimly in the velvety dusk; the white stones beneath her feet held rainbows of dull color within. She walked slowly, considering her own futility. Diplomacy had become her work, but it wasn't so long ago when she wasn't afraid to use a little force. The peace in Kirkwall was tenuous, certainly, and perhaps it wasn't meant to last. Was it better that she break it than someone with less noble intentions?

She'd been here three days. Despite her own longing and Anders' persistence, perhaps what she really needed to do was wait.


	12. I Cannot Fault Your Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel shares her past with Fenris, and discovers Anders' dark secret.

When walking failed to clear her head, Mahariel returned to The Hanged Man. Lacking the desire to sit in her room and review treaties, however, she found a seat at the bar. She didn't recognize any of the faces around her, and she didn't want to seek out Anders with word of her failure. So she sat alone and ordered a bottle of wine. She didn't mean to share.

"I'd heard the Hero of Ferelden was a woman, but I didn't think she'd be an elf."

"Flames," Mahariel cursed, and turned to see who owned the gritty voice that beckoned her.

A tall, thin man with silvery hair and fierce hazel eyes sat down next to her. He too was of elven kind, but his skin bore strange markings; she didn't make him for Dalish.

"Fenris," he offered. "Friend of Hawke."

She nodded her head, "A pleasure," and she reached for her wine.

"Am I... interrupting?"

Mahariel sighed. No, he wasn't, and it was probably better if she didn't drink alone. "I'm sorry. I've had a bit of a rough day. Mahariel," she said in return.

"I've had my share of those," he said lightly, and toasted her with his own glass of wine. "I saw you with the mage the other night."

She nodded. "And old friend."

"Hm," Fenris answered, noncommittally. If a mage like Anders could be "an old friend," Fenris wasn't quite sure he wanted to get to know the Hero of Ferelden any better. Still, his curiosity was piqued. A woman, and elf, and from the few legends he had heard, a find swordswoman. Perhaps he could forgive her association with the mage as he had with Hawke. He offered, "If you're looking for him, he's gone off with the dwarf and Aveline; they're following Hawke into danger, as usual."

The Warden Commander smiled. "That sounds like him." She turned away from her glass to look at Fenris, and he got his first real impression of her. She was hopelessly pretty, and the lines around her eyes and mouth only served to impress upon that fact. Her vallaslin was light and wispy, suited to her full-moon face and dark-blue eyes. Dark, wavy hair was falling out of a loose knot at the nap of her neck; she didn't care that she was attractive. And Maker, was she tiny. Fenris was tall for an elf, but he doubted she would even come up to his shoulder.

Thinking back, Mahariel ventured a question: "Why didn't you think I'd be an elf?"

"It's a long story."

"Seems I've got time," she proposed.

Well, he had started it, hadn't he? He flagged down the barkeep for another glass of wine, but Mahariel shook her head to the bartender and pointed at herself, signaling the elf's next round was on her. Fenris tipped his head to offer her thanks, and began, "I could have guessed by your accent that you're Dalish, without ever having seen you."

"That bad?" she laughed. "I thought most of it had faded away."

He smiled sadly. "It's not strong. I'm in a unique position in having known more than my share of elves."

"Being one yourself?"

"I'm not Dalish, as is probably obvious. But I knew many of your kind."

"So then where are you from, my urban brethren? I've seen much of Thedas but your accent, I can't place." She played his game.

Fenris chuckled, his shoulders shaking gently. "And the truth comes out. I never would have known you were a fellow elf because I never would have been permitted to know, and then would have been a bit too distant. I lived most of my life in Tevinter, forsaken place that it is."

The smile fled from Mahariel's face. "Then you were -"

"A slave, pride and property of the magister who owned me," he said bluntly. It was nothing new to him, and now that Danarius was dead, the elf nearly counted his unfortunate life as a joke, in the company of others, at least.

"I am sorry, Fenris," the Warden Commander said softly, "I have seen what they do firsthand." The faces of the poor, starved elves tricked by the Tevinter slave traders in Denerim flashed back to her. She'd saved many of them, but was too late for so many more. And many of the sick elves who were promised a cure by their would-be captors surely met their deaths as well. For all the good she'd done in Ferelden, she let so much evil survive.

"Have you?"

"Yes," she took a long slow drink, "and I put them down like dogs."

Fenris' eyes lit up. "Then you've seen what the magisters are capable of?"

Quickly Mahariel put up her hand. She'd been down this road before, and she didn't need to allow it any further. "Make no mistake, Fenris. I counted on the help of many mages to stop the Blight. I count them now as some of my closest friends." But she conceded, "I was also there when the Ferelden Circle was overcome by blood magic. I risked my life and the life of... the lives of others who trusted me to free the uncorrupt mages within. And when I found the blood mages who had endangered the lives of so many innocent, who had tarnished the name of magic Thedas over, I put them to my blade without mercy." She looked at him with hard eyes. "My stance on mages is clear. But my stance on evil is just as firm. And I will have no argument." She drained her cup and set it down hard. She'd had plenty of time to think about it, plenty of opportunities when her opinion could have been swayed. But she always came down on the same side of the line: blood mages were evil as any non-mage who strikes down an innocent man is evil. And mages free of corruption were are innocent as any other good man. A person's propensity to cause harm was not dictated by an accident of birth.

Fenris was quiet. With everything in him he wanted to argue with her, but she had seen evil first hand and she had handled it mercilessly. Was she swayed by Anders, who had so gently lead her away from the bar the previous night? Or were her opinions a result of her experiences?

"How did you meet Anders?"

As factually as possible, she submitted, "I freed him from the Circle." Fenris twitched, and she laughed, rephrasing, "I conscripted him. A templar called Rylock was going to arrest him, and probably have him executed or made Tranquil for..." she laughed, "well, for being Anders. I needed Wardens and the charges pressed against him were trumped-up at best, so I told him he could either prove his innocence as a Grey Warden or go right back into the hands of the templars. Needless to say, he chose the Wardens, and I never had reason to suspect him of anything, except occasionally being a bastard." She sent a very pointed glance to Fenris, "And the last time I checked, that wasn't a crime."

It pained him to admit it, but the woman was right. Anders' only crime was a crime of principle, freeing mages from the Circle. Hawke had rescued the mage from the one chance Anders may have had to commit a serious offense, but the girl he'd nearly murdered in the name of Justice still drew breath.

"You're an intriguing woman, Mahariel. I don't agree with you, but I cannot fault your choices."

She sighed, staring into her cup. "Oh, believe me. I can."

"Hm?"

"Now that's a long story," she deflected, and Fenris could tell she didn't want to be pushed, or even encouraged, so he let it go.

"I'll tell you what, Hawke, I never thought I would get into half of the trouble you get me into," came an alto voice from the door, and Aveline, Varric, and Hawke filtered into the tavern, with Anders close behind.

"Well, speak of the apostate," Fenris insulted the mage.

"What's this now?" Anders asked, mostly to Mahariel.

"We were just talking about you," she said with a smile, and despite her ineffective day, she was happy to see him again.

"Nothing bad I hope?" he cocked his eyebrow playfully.

"Never," Mahariel promised.

"She said you can be a bit of a bastard," Fenris divulged.

"I said you were a bit of a bastard when I first conscripted you."

Anders knitted his brow but admitted, "Well... that's not entirely untrue, I suppose."

"Come on, Blondie, first round's on me," Varric called as he made for the steps.

"All my rounds better be on you after tonight," Anders called back, then turned to Mahariel, "Meet me upstairs?" he reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze, which Fenris did not miss.

"Of course," she assured him, and he began to cross the floor.

Leaning in towards the Warden-Commander, Fenris asked, "So his... deal with Justice never bothered you?"

Mahariel cocked her head in surprise. "What about Justice?"

Anders froze, lips parting slowly. He didn't even turn around to beg, "Fenris, stop."

"What about Justice?" Mahariel asked Anders now, and he pivoted slowly on his heel, eyes wide in shock. Hawke had stopped at the top of the steps and Aveline just ahead of him, watching the scene play out.

"Nothing," Anders said weakly.

Fenris blinked, tilting his chin. "You don't know."

"She doesn't need to know," Anders half-insisted, half-pleaded.

But Mahariel stood and walked up to the mage, the whole bar now focusing their attention on the pair. "You don't tell me what I do and don't need to know." Her words were firm in their quietude. 

He took her hands carefully, lowing his voice, "Lyna, please, not now; I'll explain everything later, I promise." His eyes were soft, the marks of age clear on his face.

"Is he here?" she pressed, ignoring his wishes.

"Oh, he's here alright," Fenris piped up from the bar, drunk on wine and superiority. Mahariel's eyes went from the elf to the mage.

"Anders?" she pushed again.

"Ignore him," he instructed. "Let's talk upstairs, Lyn'. Not here," and he started to pull her towards the steps, but Fenris hadn't finished with him.

"You never told her that you're an abomination?"

Anders let go of Mahariel's hands and took quick, powerful steps toward Fenris, "Maker help me, Fenris," and he raised his fist, but the elf drew his blade and raised it to Anders' throat.

"Do you think you can win this fight, mage?"

The smell of ozone rippled through the air and Anders' fists began to glow. "I think I'd like to bloody try."

"Stop it." Two words came from Mahariel's lips. She didn't shout, didn't even raise her voice, but her tone was deadly serious. "Both of you. Stop it." This was a woman who had stared down darkspawn, demons, despots. Two men behaving like children had no power over her. "Fenris, put your blade away before I see fit to use it on you. Anders, upstairs. Now."

As their shock wore off, they complied with Mahariel's forceful request. Anders recalled his mana and Fenris sheathed his sword.

Just above the steps, Aveline bent forward and whispered to Hawke, "I think I like her very much." Hawke laughed, and the tension in the bar was broken. People went back to their drinks, turning away from the two elves and a mage who had either disrupted or livened up their evening, depending on who you talked to.

Anders slumped to Mahariel like a hound beaten by his master. "Lyna -"

"We will talk upstairs."


	13. Show Me One Person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders explains his reasoning.

She let Anders speak without interruption, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Everything came out in a rush, right up to the point that he'd almost slaughtered the poor mage girl that Ulrik meant to abuse. When he was finished, he felt like someone had rung him like a sponge; he was weak, he felt sick, and yet, he felt relieved. He sat on Mahariel's bed, slumped over with his face in his hands, heart pounding, cheeks damp though he couldn't remember crying. His shoulders were sore and his head felt clear for the first time in a long time.

Mahariel sat at the small round table, a single candle flicking away, resting her forehead on her fingers. She'd let her eyes close. She wanted to be angry. She wanted to be angry with every fiber of her being. But she didn't have it in her. Anders had had a reason for everything he'd done, and surely she did not want to see Justice 'die,' whatever that meant, but...

"There were other ways, Anders. You could have come to us."

He let out a choked sob that sounded something like, "I'm sorry," but his throat had closed up. He knew what he had done. He wasn't sure if he regretted it, but he was aware of anything Mahariel could have to say. He thought he was doing the right thing at the time. Now he wasn't so sure. Anders had admitted that much to Hawke.

Mahariel rose from her chair and stood, letting out a long, shaky breath. She paced the floor once, twice, before walking cautiously to the grieving mage. She went down on her knee in front of him, and took his chin in her hand. His eyes flicked up her hers, eyes rimmed with red.

She licked her lips and hesitantly spoke. "It's alright."

He was frozen, trying to find words, trying to find air, but she touched his cheek, smoothed his hair, and repeated her verdict.

"How?" he gasped.

"You did what you thought you had to do." She closed her eyes. "Show me one person who is innocent of that." Mahariel stood and offered him her hand. Anders took it held it tightly, before using her strength to help him rise to his trembling feet.

"Lyna, I -"

She kissed him, to stop the words that would come from his lips and to show him she already understood.


	14. Say It, Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel shares her feelings.

The sweat dried on Anders' forehead and he caught his breath, Mahariel close to his chest, her bare form held tightly in his arms. Her cheek rested in the hollow of his collar bone, his sunset-blond hair free of its confines and tickling the bridge of his nose. Mahariel reached up and pushed the tangles away from his flushed face.

His long, deep exhalations were content, eyes barely able to stay open, lips resting again the elf's forehead in a perpetual kiss.

"Can I say it now?" he whispered playfully.

"Do you have to?" Mahariel sighed, but her tone was kind.

"If I do?"

"Say it, then."

"I love you."

She smiled and he could feel it against his shoulder. It was all he needed; she didn't have to say it. Mahariel wasn't the type, he sensed. Maybe she had been, once, but now all he needed was to know she accepted his words. She didn't have to offer her own.

"They probably think I've killed you by now," she said softly.

"Unless, you know... Well, what I mean to say is... These doors aren't that thick."

"Oh, Maker," she laughed, nuzzling the crook of his neck.

He had never felt so good.


	15. Interlude II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel feels the full weight of Anders' words.

When Mahariel woke in the morning, Anders was gone. She rose slowly, the urge to stay in bed dragging her down. The sheets smelled like him, smelled like his coat had. She let her head rest on her pillow for what felt like hours after she had woken up, completely lifeless. The previous evening felt like a dream. Only now did the weight of Anders' words sink in, only now it it fully absorb into her mind what he had confessed to. Former friend and Warden or not, Justice was a spirit, a creature of the Fade. Fenris, though crass, had known the truth: Anders was an abomination of some kind, and he was not fully in control.

She thought back to Wynne, wise and gentle Wynne, whose own life was only allowed to continue due to the kindness of one of those Fade-beings. Mahariel was conflicted, and her stomach was in knots. She sat up slowly, the air in the dark room hot and constricting on her naked skin. Dressing lethargically, sore from drinking and fighting and making love, she wondered if those three words he'd offered her were worth fighting the battle against the spirit inside him. Was he even winning?

It would have been easier if she didn't want so badly to love him back.

Turning her mind away from personal matters, she sat down to papers and ink.


	16. Who We Are

Though she'd left her door partly ajar to cool down the seemingly super-heated air in her room at The Hanged Man, sometime in the late afternoon, there came a knock.

Not even bothering to look up from a massive stack of parchment, she voiced, "Anders, I'm busy." Her mind was foggy enough.

"Are you also too busy for someone else?" came a gravelly voice, and Mahariel tipped her head up and leaned in her chair to see through the gap in the door. Fenris strode in slowly, his hands folded behind his back, head down. "I... wanted to apologize."

Mahariel stood quickly, and offered him entrance with a sweep of her hand, quickly saying, "That's not necessary."

"It is. My problem with the mage is my own, and though I would be happy to have a discourse with you on the real and apparent dangers of magic, I had no business inserting myself into your personal life." He looked up at her though his silver hair and his eyes were bitter but genuine. "I hardly know you."

Mahariel nodded. "I accept your apology, and I bear you no grudge. Believe me." She offered him a seat and she lifted a large stack of papers, setting it carefully on the floor. Fenris quietly accepted and Mahariel allowed herself to sit once more.

The Warden-Commander had never been one not to ask questions. "Tell me about your markings, Fenris."

He smiled, and it revealed his sorrow. "The lyrium scars of my former life. My master bestowed them upon me. The pain was so unbearable I forgot who I was - honestly. I went through the better part of my life thinking they were a punishment at best, but I have come to learn that these cursed marks," he held out his arms, sun-baked skin contrasting against the pale moon lines, "that these were something I asked for. Fought for." He closed his eyes. "I am not sure which is worse."

"Does it matter?" she asked plainly.

"What?"

"Does it matter which is worse?"

He looked up at her as though the thought had never occurred to him before. "No," he nearly chuckled. "I suppose it doesn't."

"Are they useful?"

"...They can be."

Mahariel folded her hands and leaned forward as though sharing a secret. "I was not made a Warden by choice. A clan-mate of mine, Tamlen, and I stumbled upon a Dalish ruin while out hunting. We were young and stupid, and we decided to explore it. It was hidden underground, and filled with vile creatures, but we didn't heed the obvious warning; we slew them instead and pressed on, and we came upon a mirror.

"The very sight of the thing turned my stomach but it drew Tamlen in. It was too late for him the moment we entered that ruin, I believe that now. The eluvian called to him, and corrupted him completely. I like to think he did not escape alive, but..." she pressed her eyes shut, trying to purge herself of the memory, of the experience, of the wraith that had haunted her camp.

"The Warden Commander Duncan found me in that ruin, unconscious and helpless. How I survived, I don't know. But I didn't escape my fate. I was tainted by the eluvian, which in its years in isolation had been opened to all sorts of foul things. I was given a choice: become a Grey Warden, which would slow the course of the corruption through my veins, or die.

"I still think Duncan took pity on me, even though he insisted he didn't; that Wardens are not made without reason. But I don't think it was that kind of pity. I think he was sorry he had not found the eluvian first." Leaning back in her chair, she finished, "My point is, it doesn't matter whether or not we get to choose with what or how it is we are poisoned, whether physical, emotional, or spiritual. Only that we choose who we are after we are scarred."

A blankness washed over Mahariel's face, and a sort of epiphany struck her. Quickly she stood, nearly knocking the chair over. "I'm sorry - I have to go.

"But -" Fenris rose and meant to stop her, but she waved him off, apologizing again, and Fenris was left between a chair and a table in a room that didn't belong to him. But after listening to her words, he felt somehow lighter.


	17. Far Too Powerful and Far Too Strange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel makes peace with her feelings for Anders.

The Warden-Commander forced open the clinic door, and was nearly met with Anders' staff, before the mage realized who it was that had barged in so suddenly.

"Lyna?"

"Tell me who you are," she demanded.

"What in the -"

"Tell me."

He dropped his staff and put up his hands, humoring her outburst, "Lyna, I'm..." but he stopped, realizing the implications of her question. He'd never given anyone his real name, not since the Circle had taken him. That wasn't who he was anymore, anyway, was it? He'd just been Anders so long, it was who he'd become. "Anders."

"And?"

"And what, for Andraste's sake?" he took a step toward her, but she stopped him, putting out her hand firmly.

Her face was fixed, her eyes were cold, her stance almost threatening in her plain grey dress. Her hair hung in her eyes like a funeral veil. "Tell me who you are, Anders." She came within inches of him and waited for his answers.

Anders pursed his lips, almost suspicious of the sudden inquisition, but the words came from his mouth anyway. "I'm... a mage, an apostate," he spat out the word in distaste, "and one of the few who would stand up for himself against the tyranny that threatens to consume this city. And I'm a man who wants nothing more than peace and quiet, piece of mind, and his own freedom." He uttered the words with conviction despite the strangeness of Mahariel's outburst.

"Is that all?"

"Well, I still stand by my previous statement."

"Your..." she furrowed her eyebrows.

"That I want a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right -"

"To shoot lightning at fools."

He smiled. "Of all the things I've ever said to you, that's the one you remember?"

"Well, that, and one other thing," she confessed, narrowing the inches between them to centimeters.

"That being?"

She slung one arm around his neck and whispered to him, "I love you."

They kissed slowly, tenderly, each relaxing against the other after Mahariel's unusual confrontation, each sensing a little piece of who the other was in themselves.

"What was all this about?" he asked quietly when their lips parted.

"Last night, when I told you everything was alright?"

He nodded, his nose brushing hers.

"I needed to make sure it was."

"Well, what's the verdict, Warden Commander?"

She grinned. "All is as I thought."

Anders formed a lop-sided smile and slowly pulled away from her, realizing only then that everyone in the - blessedly almost empty - clinic had their gazes firmly fixed on elf and mage.

Shaking his head, Anders remarked, "We're quite good at making scenes lately."

"Lately? Give me one example of when we were bad at getting people to stare."

"You always did know how to put things in perspective, Lyna." He led her out of the clinic and into the next best thing to open air: the tall openings in the walls of Darktown that sometimes let in rain and snow, but today only let in wan evening light and a salty breeze. "I just want to be clear about this." The pale orange light reflected in his brown eyes and lit them up like garnets. He put his hands on her face and knelt gently to look Mahariel straight in the eyes, admiring her as he hadn't since before he'd left Amaranthine. Her vallaslin had faded, but the flowing marks still highlighted her features. Anders was well aware of how his own face had changed, and compared to him, she had hardly aged a day. Maybe it was Justice, or maybe he was just getting old. He ran his thumb along her pale cheek. "Are you... with me?"

"Is that what you want, Anders?" It wasn't cloying or demeaning, it wasn't even demanding. It was honest.

"Maker, yes," he sighed. "But our lives have grown so different. You don't know how long you'll be in Kirkwall, and I don't know if I can ask you to follow me into danger, should the atmosphere become dangerous. Well, more dangerous," he confessed.

"Anders, when have you ever known me to flee from danger? Or to do anything except run headlong into it? And no, I don't know how long I'll stay in Kirkwall. It could be weeks. It could be forever." She looked out of of the massive gap in the mine's wall, then back to the mage. "And you are always welcome in Amaranthine, should you need to leave Kirkwall." He opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off. "I'm not asking you to leave. But you have safe haven at the Keep. So I say as long as we are together, I am yours if you will have me. Who knows where life will take us?"

"How can you do that?" he stood tall again, crossing his arms.

"Do what?"

"How can you be so laissez-faire about such massive things?"

She tilted her head, expression somewhere between a precocious smile and pain. "Because life is far too powerful and far too strange to fight. I'm not saying I believe in fate, but there's no reason to destroy ourselves over ifs and maybes." She looked down. "It took me a long time to learn that."

Anders hesitated over the question that brewed in his mind, but he had to ask. "Do you still love him?"

She chuckled softly. "Of course I do. But he is dead, and I love you no less. Should we deny ourselves what we both want - have wanted - out of fear? Or grief?"

"You're sure about this? I'm a wanted man."

"You wouldn't be the first." Mahariel touched her arm lightly to his. "Anders, I know who you are, I know what you stand for, I know what you've done. And I'm telling you I'm yours. Don't make me change my mind."

He put his arm around her shoulders. "You are too good."

"I am exactly as good as I need to be." Mahariel's expression grew mischievous. "And sometimes, I can be very, very bad."

"Maker, yes," he repeated, running his tongue over his lips.


	18. A Reluctant Hero

"They must have some juicy stories about you in Ferelden," Varric said. He was alone in his quarters tonight but had caught Mahariel on her way in and invited her to his room to talk.

"Maker, I hope not," she groaned, wrapping her hands around a cup of mead. She was forgoing the wine for something a little more gentle. She was drunk enough on emotion, and Mahariel was not one to be a sappy mess, so she stayed away from the strong, bitter wine The Hanged Man offered and took Varric up on his suggested brew, making sure to drink very slowly.

"A reluctant hero, eh? Very poetic," the dwarf mused.

"Don't you have enough to do regaling Ser Hawke's achievements?" she prodded, leaning forward on her elbows. The more she walked around Kirkwall, the more ridiculous things she heard about the Champion, and Mahariel got the feeling she knew the source.

"Variety is the spice of life, Hero, and your feminine wiles counter Hawke's manly good looks nicely."

"Feminine wiles? Oh please," she moaned. "I'm about as wily as a sack of grain."

"The spell you've put on Blondie would have me disagree," Varric opposed, taking a long drink of his foamy beer.

Mahariel laughed and couldn't keep from blushing, but the hue brought to her cheeks was made weird by the darkspawn taint in her veins. "That was not my 'feminine wiles' that cast that spell."

"Then what, Hero?"

She shook her head. "I can't say for sure. Mutual loneliness, maybe. If anything," she confessed, "I fell for him first." But Mahariel paused, parting her lips and knitting her brown in a gesture of confusion. "Why I am telling you this?"

Varric only smiled and rubbed his beardless chin. "I have that effect on people."

"Or you've slipped me the mickey."

"I would never! I have standards, you know."

"Everyone has standards. Some are lower than others."

"I'd heard you were clever."

"I hope I'm living up to your expectations."

"And then some," Varric toasted her, then lowered his voice. "Is it true? About you and King Maric's bastard son?"

A jolt of pain shot through Mahariel's heart and she took a long, cog-wheeled inhale.

"I'm sorry -"

"No," she cut him off. "I should... I'm used to it. Yes, it's true."

"What's true?"

Mahariel whipped around, and found Fenris standing in the door way. "The door was open," he offered.

"This... might not be the best time, elf," Varric tried his best to repair the damage he had unintentionally done. Though crass on the surface, Varric's heart was of gold, try as he might to deny it.

Mahariel dismissed him, "It's alright. Sit down, Fenris." She turned to Varric, explaining, "We spoke earlier today. I left in a bit of a rush." To the elf, she said, "I apologize. I was rude."

Taking the seat opposite Mahariel, he waved it away. "Not at all. In fact, I wanted to thank you for your words. They were more insightful than you know."

Remembering Anders' awkward, lusty smile, she laughed, "No, I think I do," and she folded her hands before her. "So, you want to know the truth about Alistair and I, Varric?"

"Does a nug carry the Blight?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Actually, no, they don't."

"Don't be pedantic."

"Fine, the truth," she said. "I loved him. He died."

"When he slew the Archdemon?" the dwarf fished for more.

Mahariel nodded, and with a sad little laugh, she said, "I don't think I've forgiven him for that." Fenris looked at her sideways, and she elaborated reluctantly. "Only a Grey Warden can slay an Archdemon. An Orlesian Warden, Riordan, made an oath to Alistair and I that he would take the blow; he was old, he said, his time was almost up. But he died before he could deliver the strike. I watched him fall, and in the chaos of battle, I made my peace. I pushed passed the horde of darkspawn and told myself I would make the sacrifice - Ferelden needed a king more than it needed me. I was nothing.

"We lured the Archdemon down and fought it atop Fort Drakon. When it was nearly defeated, I drew my blade..." she took a long, slow breath and leaned her head back against the chair. "He smiled, you know? That was the worst part. He smiled, and he slew the dragon in my place. I was ready to die. And I couldn't stop him." Involuntarily, she gasped a sharp inhalation, but she quickly covered her mouth and steeled herself. "And then he was gone."

The room was silent but for the noise from the bar filtering up the steps. Mahariel stood. "I'm sorry," she muttered, and with hunched shoulders, she walked quickly out of the room, out of the inn; Varric and Fenris watched as she disappeared into the Lowtown night.

After a brief pause, Fenris remarked, "That's the second time she's done that today."

"Elf, after everything she's seen, I'm surprised she stuck around this long." It took a few moments before the implications of his own words hit them both and Fenris followed in Mahariel's footsteps, making to follow the Warden Commander.

"Varric, you have got to learn when to shut your mouth," the dwarf muttered to himself and lost himself in his drink.


	19. Let's Take a Walk

"Mahariel?" Fenris called as he stepped onto the street. His own heart was in his throat. He hadn't known anything about her other than she was the one who had stopped the Blight - he didn't know the sacrifices she had made, didn't know what she had lost. The things he had heard from her lips that day alone made him ache. Varric's accident of speech was poignant: though Fenris had been brash with Anders when the mage had asked if the elf had ever considered suicide as a means of freedom, he sympathized with Mahariel. The amount of mental fortitude the woman possessed must be huge, he figured, or after all she had seen and done she had become numb. But the face he had seen in Varric's quarters was not one of unfeeling. It was the face of a strong woman whose hard enamel was chipped, cracked, broken in places but whose core remained supple, strong. It was the face of loss, and in the face of that, his own tribulations felt meager. Could he survive what she had seen? Could he give all that she had given?

A small sigh preceded, "I'm here," the hesitant words coming from a shadowed corner. She stepped out from the darkness, her arms crossed over her chest, long hair unable to hide the red rims of her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said again. "I made an absolute fool of myself."

Fenris had nothing to offer her, so instead he suggested, "Come. Let's take a walk." Mahariel complied, following his every stride as they walked silently past rundown warehouses and homes. When they neared the alienage, he noticed the Warden-Commander quicken her pace.

"I don't like it either," he said, assuming she as an elf was disturbed by the district.

"It's not that," she answered, but didn't elaborate, and allowed her her silence.

When they neared The Hanged Man again, she suddenly spoke up, "You know, I didn't even know him a whole year."

"Alistair?"

She nodded. "When I look at it all as facts, it seems so... ridiculous. So fast. I don't know," she dismissed herself.

Fenris shook his head. "The shortest amounts of time sometimes mean the most to us by their very fleeting nature. They are... small. Fragile. Too packed with importance to sustain themselves."

"The candles with the brightest flame burn down too fast. That was him, alright," she laughed, and the smile returned to her face. "You're probably right, Fenris. In fact, I know you are."

"But it doesn't make it easier."

"Of course it doesn't." Her head swayed back and forth, milling over her words. "Maybe it does."

Unconsciously, he grasped her shoulder. "If I had half your bravery -"

"You would be that much less brave than you are now," she cast off his compliment. "I'm tired of being a hero, Fenris, because the truth is, I'm not. I was a scared little girl, and I didn't have a choice."

"But you chose who you were," he offered her own words back to her.

Her lips parted, eyebrows raised, and she laughed silently. "Fair play," she granted him.

"There you are," Anders voice came from the set of stairs just about the inn. "I've been look -" he stopped cold when he saw Fenris, who promptly dropped his hand from Mahariel's shoulder.

"Fenris," Anders said the name as civilly as he could muster.

"Mage," was all Fenris had in return.

Mahariel glanced from one man to the other, before taking the higher ground. "It was good to speak with you, Fenris," and she offered him a bow of her head which the elf returned before he silently dismissed himself.

Exhaling roughly, Anders asked, "What could it possibly be good to speak to him about?"

"Choice," was all Mahariel said, which brought daggers from Anders' stare.

She offered him consolation, taking his hand and pressing her body to his. "You know I've got your back, Anders. Don't doubt that."

"I trust you. But Fenris -"

Mahariel raised her eyebrow. "Alistair was a templar. You know that."

"And I don't agree with him," he said respectfully.

"Neither did I," Mahariel retorted.

Defeated, Anders moaned, "Alright. Point taken."

Eager to change the subject from both lost love and the mage's plight, Mahariel submitted, "The clinic seems lonely. I'll bet you could use some company."

A suggestive growl crept into Anders' voice when he accepted, "Like you wouldn't believe."


	20. What You Need Me to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel takes the first step.

A small and cramped hollow in the crumbling walls of the mine where Anders' clinic was located served as a back room, a place Anders could go when he needed his privacy.

He'd never had anyone to share that cramped space with until now.

The clinic was virtually empty tonight, and its remaining patients were too sick or too worn out to be awake at the late hour, but Anders still had to press his hand, however reluctantly, over Mahariel's lips to stifle her sighs and gasps. He burried his own lips against her neck to quiet himself, pulling them away only after they both had stopped quaking.

Wiping her forehead with her slip before sliding it back over her body, Mahariel said, "I was going to suggest we could go back to my room, but now I'm glad I didn't."

Anders shook his head, blond locks tumbling around his eyes, and he smiled, wiping dust from his elbows and chin.

Pulling back the thin, red linen that served as a door between the small back room and the main of the clinic, Mahariel peered out into the darkness, at the beaten-in cots and their beaten-down occupants. Letting the sheet fall closed, she sighed.

"What is it?" Anders asked her, taking a seat on the bare ground and leaning against the crumbling earth.

Propped against the doorway, Mahariel crossed her arms. "I told the Grand Cleric I could never leave well enough alone."

Even in the darkness, she could see Anders peer up at her, his dark eyes brightening suddenly.

Licking her lips, the Warden-Commander made a reluctant sound. It bubbled up from her heart and was exhaled in her voice. "Tell me what you need me to do, Anders."


	21. She'll Be Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fenris inquires as to Mahariel's whereabouts.

It was late at night at The Hanged Man, and after a few drinks to bolster himself, it was Fenris who approached Anders, the mage sitting at Varric's table, but near the door. He had his hands open and his fingers splayed wide before him, showing the mage he meant no harm from the start. Keeping his eyes fixed on Anders, the elf spoke softly, nonconfrontationally. He only wanted to ask a question.

"I haven't seen Mahariel in a few days," he began, innocently enough, or as innocently as Fenris believed himself to be and as innocently as Anders chose to receive the elf's words. "She hasn't gone, has she?" He leaned in the door frame, his body language easy, purposefully so to further put Anders at ease.

Nevertheless, the mage narrowed his eyes for a moment, answering honestly, but evasively, "She's gone, but she'll be back." He took a deep breath, exhaling through his nose as he crossed his arms over his chest.

The rest of the room took no notice of them. They were used to brief but fierce nightly bickering between the two, and Varric had them all mostly drowned in their drink now besides. If anyone noticed, it was the dwarf, and the two men were not yet being belligerent enough to be marked as interesting.

"Ah, yes. Well, then..." and Fenris made to turn away, figuring Anders would not give him any more without a fight."

"Why?"

Halted by the question, Fenris quickly asked himself the same thing. Well, Mahariel intrigued him, that much was true, but fearing that Anders might take this the wrong way, knowing what was - ever bafflingly, to the elf - between the mage and the Warden, he chose a different truth instead. "We had been having a conversation. I had only hoped it was one we could finish, eventually."

Despite himself, Anders smiled. Lyna had that effect on people, and even steely Fenris couldn't escape her pull. And this magnetic woman was his. "She'll be back," he repeated, and Fenris nodded, satisfied the mage was telling the truth.

Anders watched Fenris walk away, a lingering suspicion of the swordsman he could never shake making Anders' eyes follow the elf to the bar, where he threw back the last of a glass of wine, and left The Hanged Man for evening. Anders uncrossed his arms and placed his hands flat on Varric's table, sitting a little taller than he had previously been. Mahariel would be back indeed.

Across the table, Varric's attention was now piqued, not by the confrontation, but by the lack of one. The dwarf picked up his drink, but even around his stein, he didn't take his eyes off of Anders.


	22. Interlude III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel has made her choice.

The sun was just starting to rise as Mahariel returned to Kirkwall. The seas had been calm for her voyage, and for that she was thankful. The sacks of flour she had used for a bed were softer than she had hoped, and stowing away on a cargo ship afforded her an anonymity she only remembered wistfully. In a filthy linen shift and the sole-less shoes common to the Dalish, no one suspected her of anything except being an elf who had saved up enough money to afford passage to Kirkwall, but in her bag were much finer garments, garments she'd used to leave the city in the first place, and to make her connections across Thedas. She'd only traveled as far as she'd needed to; she'd let rumor and collusion do the rest.

In the hull, the Warden Commander stretched and ran her fingers through her hair, loosing a small length of twine from around her wrist; she would use it to tie off her braid and make herself look more presentable; she wasn't about to allow herself to be stopped for questioning at the docks, not with the cargo she carried.

She carried it for Anders.

It was a small thing, but she'd done all she could. Acid churned in her stomach if she thought of it too long or too hard, and she had to comfort herself with thoughts of the past, with all the things she'd done and gotten away with in Ferelden. They had had to be done, and someone had had to do them. Mahariel had never questioned before that she was the one to do them, not with Alistair by her side, not with his conviction steadying her even on the rare occasions when he questioned her methods, her choices.

But she had made her choice now.

A sick smile crossed her lips and she muttered to herself that Fenris would be proud. The irony did not escape her. It never did anymore.


	23. People Will Get Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel and Fenris share a meal, but Mahariel does not share her secret.

She'd kept her room at The Hanged Man while she'd been away, and Mahariel sat at her same familiar table with a fresh but familiar candle, turning a small, incredibly aged slip of parchment over and over in her hands. Her treaties and requests sat in a pile at her feet. She'd left them in her room while she had been away, in chest that Varric promised her would be safe. Varric was a man of extreme contradictions; almost everything out of his mouth was a lie, but when he promised something, one could bet he'd guard the truth of that promise with his life, so the Warden Commander had no qualms leaving them behind. But this small slip of paper, this small piece of writing, that was something she would keep close to her, no matter what.

She hadn't yet told Anders she'd returned. It was still early, at any rate, and if and when Anders had time to sleep, she would let him. He looked like he barely slept at all anymore, and she felt relief when she woke and he was still in her arms, resting soundly. But she wouldn't go to him. Not yet.

"Mahariel," a soft, gritty whisper came through the door.

Without answering, she put the slip of parchment face-down on the table, stood, and went to open it.

Fenris stood in the pale morning sun, his arms loosely folded. The light shone on his all-too-silver hair and reflected mysteriously against the lyrium set into his skin, the darkness of his flesh making it seem to radiate all the more. Mahariel saw so many of the same things in him that she saw in Anders - they were both men who could look so strong and so weak at the same time.

"I saw you come in."

She motioned that he could entered the room; she didn't ask how or why he had seen her, she didn't need to know. His intentions were not malicious, he was not here to accuse her; she could sense that, and that satisfied her.

He walked to the small table and sat down in the chair he had been in before when Mahariel had so quickly left the room, her thoughts getting the better of her. The Warden Commander stood by her chair but didn't sit, not right away. Fenris watched her pick up a small piece of parchment from the table, set it on top of a stack of parchment at her feet, pick up the whole stack with her limber fingers and sinewy arms, and place it in a chest near the head of her bed. She closed the lid on the chest and locked it, giving the lock a firm tug to make sure it was sealed before she stood tall and gave a small back bend to stretch her spine.

"If I'm interrupting -"

"Fenris, when was the last time you had a good meal? A good breakfast?"

The question took him by surprise, but he crossed his legs, leaning back, and replied, "Well, Hawke sometimes -"

Again, she cut him off. "I'm betting a place like this can at least make decent eggs. What do you say we give it a try?"

Perplexed, Fenris shrugged, showing his palms to the ceiling, elbows bent. He didn't know what Mahariel was up to, but he couldn't help but find his lips twisting into an involuntary grin. The more he talked to her, the more he understood how the self-proclaimed scared little girl could have become a Grey Warden, a Hero, a Commander, an Arlessa. She never had to bend people to her will. They did it willingly, and with a smile. Thedas was lucky then, he reflected, that she seemed to have absolutely no ill will in her tiny body.

"Eggs it is," she confirmed, and her eyes seemed to brighten at the idea of food, or of sharing it with him. "I'll be right back," Mahariel excused herself, bare feet padding softly on the dirt floor as she went to place their order.

Fenris watched her go, but as soon as she was gone, his eyes were drawn back to that locked chest in the corner of the room. He assumed he knew mostly what was written on those sheets of parchment: the comings and goings of the people of Amaranthine, anything that needed approved or notarized or required the attention of the person who kept track of the arling. She was not a queen; all that responsibility fell directly to Mahariel. There were people she could defer to, perhaps, but they would come to her with questions, with confirmations, and it probably saved her time to take care of all major issues herself. If Marahiel seemed to Fenris that she was anything, it was that she seemed efficient. After all, she had stopped the Blight in just under a year. Yes, it was probably better for her to keep her hand directly in the affairs of the arling. Those papers were important, those papers impacted people's lives.

But she hadn't locked up those papers before.

Fenris' lips parted and he uncrossed his legs, placing both feet firmly on the ground as he tried to rationalize Mahariel's actions. She'd been away, maybe to deal with a more immediate problem. Maybe it was serious, volatile, maybe those pieces of parchment were of a different nature than the ones she'd left behind, left alone with him before. After all, he didn't know what she dealt with - or in - in Amaranthine; he could only assume. He couldn't know anything for sure. But he'd seen magisters leave things out in the open, things that slaves would have no reason to read, no interest in, assuming they could read at all. And he'd seen them lock things up. He'd seen them lock up papers that their slaves couldn't even have any hope of understanding. They locked them up for their own piece of mind. Or maybe because it helped the magisters feel safe from the harm that they themselves were inflicting. Or -

Fenris shook his head and swallowed hard.

This woman had liberated people, this woman had rescued nations. This woman had seen the good in people Fenris would have thought beyond saving and put them to work to redeem themselves.

This woman probably has secrets, and they were hers alone to keep.

Fenris had secrets of his own, he thought to himself. They just weren't the kind he could put in a chest and lock away.

He ran his hands through his hair and put his elbows on the table, holding his head gently. Maybe he would simply never be able to trust anyone. There were times when he even doubted Hawke, even when the Champion gave him that smile and that wink, and Fenris felt a dull ache in his chest he couldn't recall feeling for anyone before.

"I hope you're hungry," came a soft voice from the hall and Mahariel came back into the room, followed by the bar girl Fenris thought was called Norah. They both carried plates, and tucked under Mahariel's arm was bottle of wine the likes of which Fenris hadn't seen in The Hanged Man before; it must have been from the tavern's secret stash, rumours of which he'd only heard from Varric.

"And thirsty," Fenris commented coyly as Mahariel set the bottle down on the table amongst the eggs, toast, bacon, fried vegetables, jam, and butter that fought for space on the small wooden surface. Mahariel cocked her head with a grin as Norah retrieved two glasses from her apron pockets and gave a small bow as she left the room. The Warden lifted a finger quickly signalling for Fenris to wait, and she followed Norah out of the room. From his chair, he could see Mahariel slip the barmaid much too large a tip, and instead of Norah's usual sarcasm and chiding, he only saw the girl blush fiercely and say nothing. Mahariel clasped her wrist gently, comfortingly, then sent Norah on her way.

When she came back into the room, Mahariel said off-hand, "I'd hate to be her. Living off of the tips from the same drunk sailors every night. I'd rather work at the Rose than sell my dignity the way she has to. At least the girls at the Rose make a decent wage." She lifted the corkscrew that had come with the wine and twirled it expertly around one finger before plunging the sharp end into the cork in a way that, if plunged into a heart, would have been instantly deadly. Instead, the rich, red liquid that poured from the bottle was cool, not warm, but for two people who had a lot to forget, it was equally life-sustaining, except in the moments when it helped them to remember.

Mahariel poured for Fenris first, and he realized that Mahariel didn't see herself as special or entitled or even as woman. She saw herself as an equal, an equal to absolutely everyone she met, except for the people she held in even higher regard.

Fenris took a sip of the wine. He sighed, and closed his eyes. It was bright and dry, it woke up his tongue and throat and stomach and then put them back to sleep. Without realizing he'd done it, he drained the cup.

Mahariel did the same, then poured them both more, before picking up a fork to delve into her eggs, their yokes set soft on top, just hard enough to offer a moment of hopeless resistance before the tines of the fork punctured the thin membrane and yellow spilled all along the whites. Brown, crispy toast soaked it up and Mahariel ate with the fervor of a starving woman, but with the forcefully slow, concentrating movements of an experienced lover. The food was nothing special, not like the wine, but Fenris knew how the Warden Commander felt: simple pleasures were special when nothing about one's life was simple. They smeared butter and jam decadently on toast, folding the bread in half and taking big, uncivilized bites, but chewing slowly, savoring the innocence of an average meal. Whenever one drained their glass, the other would fill the offending empty cup, until every morsel of food, every drop of wine was gone, and when it was, Mahariel only asked, "More?"

Fenris was too drunk to say no, to not take advantage of Mahariel's kindness, and she left the room only briefly this time to return with another bottle of the same vintage. When she uncorked it, her hands were steady, but flushed cheeks and slow eyes betrayed her.

As she poured a fresh round, Fenris finally asked, "What are we celebrating?"

Mahariel set the bottle down amongst the dirty, barren plates and shook her head. "Celebrating? No. We're doing whatever the opposite of that is."

Fenris couldn't help himself. "And Anders?"

Mahariel gave a quick laugh through her nose. "He'll get his."

Fenris rolled his eyes, and Mahariel didn't fight it. She only waved a dismissive hand at him and went back to her wine.

The candle had burnt down but the room was filled with light, light that threatened early afternoon and the pair sat quietly, each not wanting to break the other's reverie. They drank slowly now, enjoying the haze in their minds and the company of an equally hazy companion.

But when Marahiel cleared her throat gently, Fenris knew it was to get his attention.

"Mm?" he asked, his glass at his lips.

"Have you ever been in love?"

Almost tenderly, Fenris lowered the glass to the table and folded his hands. His hazel eyes burnt into Mahariel's, and when he answered, "I don't know," she knew he was sincere.

"I don't recommend it," the Warden answered bluntly. "It makes you do stupid things."

Fenris, inhibitions dulled, asked, "Alistair..?"

Mahariel smiled at him, "The stupidest of them all, of course. But probably not the worst."

If Mahariel had been sober, and Fenris had been anyone else, he probably wouldn't have noticed her eyes dart to the chest she'd painstakingly locked before lavishing breakfast upon the elf.

"Mahariel?"

She didn't answer.

"Arlessa," he used her formal title, and it got her to look gingerly up at him. "What did you put in the chest?"

The air Mahariel breathed in was audibly lonely. She stood, and Fenris watched as her fists clenched and unclenched. The Warden Commander circled the table to stand next to Fenris, and took him by surprise when she dropped to her knees before him and clasped his hands tightly in hers.

"Fenris. I've talked with you like I've been able to talk to few people before. But if you only take one thing from what I've given you, please let it be this: never, ever stop fighting for what you believe in. No matter what it means for, what it does to, the people around you. Once you know what you need to do it, you do it, and you never, ever ask for forgiveness. But always forgive.

"And when you find someone to love, you cling to them. You let them turn you into the person you need to become. You'll find out a lot of truths about yourself that you couldn't have come to otherwise.

"People will hate you. People will get hurt. But being true to who you are and what you know to be right is the only thing you - we - get in this life. It's a naked, ugly truth," she twined her fingers in between Fenris', "and it's the only way we can ever do anything to make this world more beautiful. And Maker knows it could use a little more beauty."

He ran his thumbs over hers, trying to devine her purpose, using her name as a question: "Mahariel?"

"I know we don't see eye-to-eye, Fenris, and that's fine. We never will. I respect that. I only wish I'd known you sooner."

She looked away from him, from his knitted eyebrows, his pursed lips, and stood tall, releasing his hands slowly.

"Thank you for sharing breakfast with me," she said, and there was a kind of dark finality in her words.

He stood, barely inches from her, and boldly grabbed her forearms. "Mahariel," he said insistently. "Thank you." Almost reverently, he pressed his lips to her temple. He could feel blood throbbing against her skin. He let go of her with one hand and brushed her hair away from her face to look deeply into her blue eyes, a darkness wherein he'd found something rare and endlessly valuable - a friend.

He released her and took a step back. Licking his lips, he nodded.

"Fenris," she said.

He acknowledged her dismissal and left her room, closing the door behind him. He didn't need to know what was in the chest. He didn't want to know.

Alone, Mahariel pushed the plates and glasses aside. She went to the chest quickly and unlocked it, retrieving from it the thin slip of parchment, still face down, and a clean piece, as well as her inkwell and quill, stripped of all unnecessary decoration. Returning to the table, she sat down quickly to write.


	24. What Do We Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief exchange shared before final actions.

Anders was outside his clinic, leaning against the closed door with his head in his hands. He was so lost in thought he didn't see Mahariel until she was walking up his steps.

"Maker, you are a sight for sore eyes," he breathed, lunging forward to embrace her. She fell willingly against him, their lips meeting quickly at first, then longingly, desperately.

Craning over, Anders rested his chin on her shoulder, breathing, "Three more this week. All Tranquil. Their reasons are getting thinner and thinner, Lyna. It's like they don't even care to pretend anymore. It's getting bad." He straightened a bit and moved his chin to her head, then kissed her hair. "What do we do?"

Mahariel's eyes were on the floor when she muttered, "Let's go inside."


	25. You Never Have to Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mahariel gives Anders exactly what he needs.

"How did you get this?" he breathed, the dusty air in the cramped back room swirling around them with every exhale.

"Lots of people owe me favors, Anders," Mahariel said, shame in her voice. "This is the first one I've ever cashed in."

He looked at her good and long, running the backs of his fingers over her check, then pressing his palm to the same skin before bringing both hands to the thin slip of parchment.

"This... You're sure about this?"

"You were sure, Anders. That's all I need." She cleared her throat. "I couldn't get the materials. I fear I may have already turned too many heads."

Anders shook his head. "No, no," he didn't take his eyes off of the paper. "I couldn't ask any more of you than this."

"You never have to ask." She swallowed and grabbed his hand. "You know this means... This means I have to go."

Biting his lip, Anders closed his eyes in recognition. "I know."

"I just... I have to ask. How much of this is you... and how much -"

He stopped her with two fingers to her lips. "This is all me, Lyna. You asked me who I was. This is who I am." He looked down at the dirt. "I've lied to a lot of people. In the past I even lied to you. But no more. No more lies, not to you, not ever."

"Alright, Anders." Her eyes were fixed on the parchment in his hands. "Memorize it," she instructed.

Anders ran his eyes over the paper one last time, certain it was already burned into his mind. He held up the slip for her to see, and it burst into flame, burning away to nothing. Mahariel nodded. His hands now free, he reached out and pulled her close. She pressed her hands against his chest and tugged his jacket against her face, breathing in deeply.

"I'll miss the way you smell," she mused.

Anders laughed quietly and pulled away from her only long enough to strip off his jacket, folding it and putting it into her lap. "Take it. It doesn't suit me anymore, anyway." Stroking her soft, dark hair, he asked, "When are you leaving?" There was fear in his voice, a fear he hadn't known before. It was a fear of loss, of becoming lonely after having felt safe for all too short a time.

"As soon as my things are packed. I arranged for my transport to wait for me at the dock once I knew when I'd be returning to Kirkwall."

Almost bashfully, he asked, "Do we... you... have time..."

She sighed. "I shouldn't."

But she could never say no to him.


	26. Further Instructions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders finds an additional letter.

The clinic was quiet. The sun was setting. Mahariel was gone; the only thing she left behind was the smell of her on his skin. Anders ran his thumbs over his index fingers, trying to ingrain in his memory the way she'd felt in his hands. He breathed slowly, patiently, counting away the day with every inhale and exhale. It would be easier tomorrow, he told himself, easier once it was no longer the last day Mahariel was in Kirkwall, once it was no longer the last day he'd laid eyes on her. When his breathing sped up, when tears threatened, he reminded himself of his purpose, of what lengths Lyna had gone to for him, for this. He ran his hands over his bare arms and stood, making to leave the now-dark crevasse when his boot encountered not dirt, but something that crunched beneath it. Bending down, he picked up an envelope, sealed with wax, adorned with handwriting he knew was hers.

He took the letter out into the dim light of the clinic to read it. The envelope read simply, "Further instructions." He slipped his pinky beneath the wax seal and broke it.


	27. Interlude IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke weighs his choices.

Hawke gripped the hair on the back of his head with both hands, pacing in front of the fireplace. After only too brief a period of relative quiet, Kirkwall was in an upheaval again, the tension between Meredith and Orsino coming to what felt like a dangerous head, and Hawke knew he was going to be forced into it. He couldn't remain the Champion and hide away in his Hightown mansion like... Well, like everyone else who lived in Hightown. They had opinions when opinions were safe to have, but when there was the faintest whiff of danger, their opinions stayed in Hightown. They never took action. Hawke was not the kind of man who couldn't not take action.

At least he had people by his side, people he could trust. He'd only wished the Warden Commander would have stayed in Kirkwall a bit longer. Not only did she seem able to reign Anders in, she seemed as determined as Hawke himself was wont to be. She had to be, didn't she? After all, he was Champion, but she was a Hero.

But Mahariel was gone, and Anders had withdrawn within himself, or at least had until the mage had sent Hawke a summons of a sort, a request for a favor, and Hawke couldn't rightly say no, not after all the mage had done for him.

Hawke let his arms drop to his sides. Maybe he'd go see Fenris first.


	28. You're Asking a Bit Too Much

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders prepares.

"Well, that's one hell of an outfit Blondie's got himself," Varric muttered, leaving Anders' clinic shaking his head.

"I rather like it," Merrill said softly. "He looks like a great raven or something, especially with that nose." She padded softly down the steps just behind Hawke, turning to speak to Varric, but her eyes avoided Fenris who brought up the rear of the pack; she'd learned now it was always smarter to avoid conflict with him, and she always would, barring the times when Fenris was the one who started the fight.

Hawke didn't say much, only went over Anders' awkward shopping list in his mind.

Fenris approached Hawke between the other two and murmured to the Fereldan, "This feels as though it's going to be a lot of work..."

Hawke shrugged. "You say that like it's something new for us. Besides, if it means him being rid of Justice - if it means I don't have to pull him off of any more innocent victims," he commented, and cocked his eyebrow at the elf.

"I fear you're asking a bit too much," Fenris said detractingly, "even if this potion does work."

"Fenris," Hawke said his companion's name in a quiet sing-song way. "Be nice." The Champion brushed the back of his hand casually against Fenris', and the elf, suspicious though he was of Anders' request, gave Hawke a smile.


	29. She Believed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders prepares to make his move.

Anders watched the foursome leave from his door, exhaling a deep sigh. His heart was pounding. He delved his hands into his black pockets. In the left was the small envelope that read only, "Further instructions," in Mahariel's delicate hand. He touched the wax, soft now that he had smoothed it over so many times, and he was comforted by it. He took his hands from his jacket and ran them over his face, his stubble more prickly than he had let it get in a while. But the mage had more important things to worry about now. Hawke had agreed.

Anders already knew this was not going to end well for people he had come to consider his friends. After ten years, it felt like betrayal. But he quieted his guilty conscience knowing that he was true to someone else, that someone else had thought that this was the right thing to do.

She believed in him.

She believed in justice.


	30. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

Hawke had let him live.

He'd been left for dead by the Champion and all his companions, but there was no dagger between his shoulder blades, no red sword amongst his ribs.

Anders eyelids fluttered, flicking away tears, and he sucked in a shallow breath through his teeth, past his tongue, and exhaled quickly to inhale again, this new breath sending a shudder down his whole being. He put his hands on his hair and squeezed his own skull, looking to the spot on the horizon where the chantry once stood. It was empty, but for a dull red haze from the lingering embers of the building, and he was alone.

He'd done it.

Turning his back on the scene, turning his back on Hawke, Anders looked toward the sea. The quickest route would be by boat, but surely he would never make it out of Kirkwall that way, not now. The town was in panic, in disarray, but it was likely the remaining templars, the ones who had not been called to Meredith's side, knew exactly for whom they were looking. No.

He could travel east, to Ostwick, and find passage from there; the voyage across the sea would be mere days, less if the waters were calm. And if Ostwick proved hostile, if all the Free Marches were no longer safe to him, he would have to backtrack, heading west, skirting the Vinmarks to avoid the city he had made a home in for ten years, west, and then south through Orlais. He doubted anyone on the Imperial Highway would be looking for him, and the journey from there to Ferelden would be easy.

It would not be the longest journey he'd ever been forced to make.

But for now, the more unbeaten path to Ostwick made the most sense. He could travel faster than the word that he was a wanted man if he left now, while Hawke was still keeping the city of Kirkwall busy.

Anders moved his hands from his head to his pockets, and in the left, his thumb brushed against a now-worn and rugged piece of folded parchment that was marked only, "Further instructions." He withdrew the envelope, red wax broken, and slipped the message out from within.

"Anders,

"I have spent the past eleven years of my life doing what needed to be done. I will not back down now.

"The darkness that feeds from within me, the same as yours, is cutting my time short. I don't know how much longer I have before..."

Here Mahariel had scratched out something, and Anders had folded and unfolded the paper so many times that a pinhole had begun to form.

"I will not go quietly into the Deep Roads. I will not succumb to The Calling. I have pushed it as far into the back of my mind as I can, but every day in all the quiet, small moments, I know it is there. That is not how I wish to die.

"I have spent the past eleven years of my life doing what needed to be done. I never before had to ask myself what was right. I knew, and I fought for it. Against the Blight and after it, I fought for the smallest person and the largest kingdoms and I never had to ask myself if it were worth it, or if it were correct. I do not have to ask myself now. You and I know the deepest justice.

"I will continue to fight.

"I will not back down now.

"You are always welcome in Amaranthine, when you need to leave Kirkwall."

She signed only her initials, "LM," with a flourish that said she'd done it many times for many people, but with a visible haste that swelled with purpose and desperation.

Anders brought the parchment to his nose, breathing in. He could smell the forest from where she came, and he could feel the stone walls that surrounded her now. His eyelids flickered and even in the chaos and the din of a city that was destroying itself, he could hear what she heard in the back of his mind - The Calling that drew him back to Ferelden, toward those dark places between forgotten thaigs, and gritting his teeth, he fought it back all the same as she.

Anders looked east, and behind him, the red sun set.


End file.
